


that time dirk strider came out of the closet

by yawnbot



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Halloween, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, alcohol mention, dirk and jake are dumb, jane and roxy are good friends, perplexing costume choices, this is porn, yea i wrote a halloween party fic in december. what about it.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21634054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yawnbot/pseuds/yawnbot
Summary: Unfortunately, you’ve run a number of calculations pertaining to the likelihood of you getting any on this particular night, and things didn’t look good. But a boy can dream.
Relationships: Jake English/Dirk Strider
Comments: 3
Kudos: 91





	that time dirk strider came out of the closet

You do not know why you begrudge Jake and his stupid, sexy shorts. All you know is that he snaps his fingers, and you find yourself following along with whatever his half-baked plan of the week is like a duckling following its mother. Roxy often suggests that perhaps the toned muscles of his thighs and ass are some sort of bewitched, and at the moment, you are entertaining the idea. The veritable Pandora’s box of a relationship he and you had cultivated over the past few weeks is often a relationship you question. If Roxy is right, and she often is, your judgement may very well be clouded by a mind altering butt-spell. And in that case, you can easily claim absolutely no responsibility for your current predicament. Absolutely none. Zilch. Zero.

That being said, as you yank uncomfortably at your skin-tight pleather spy costume, you definitely feel a bit responsible. Yeah, okay, he  _ chose _ it — but you did nothing to stop him.

The party around you is overcrowded and overstimulating. Smoke hovers in the air in a  _ Silent Hill _ -ish fog, poking and prodding at your lungs with each inhale, and it makes your already shrouded vision all the blurrier. It's unappealing to you. You have your vices, but you don't drink and you don't smoke. Honestly, the fucked up twisted knot that you call your brain probably couldn't handle inebriation. This isn't a judgement, obviously, Roxy smokes up in your dorm once a week and you could care less, it's just not your kind of deal. 

The music, however, you do not mind. It’s some sort of shitty techno, thrumming from an unknown place in the dark, twisted room. You're unspeakably grateful that the host chose to forgo the typical Halloween soundtrack for this weird Soundcloud stuff. The bass is cranked up as high as the cheap stereo can take it, piercing your skin and pulsating pleasantly in your veins. You adjust awkwardly in your stupid fucking costume again, and punctuate that with what may or may not be a head bop to the beat. 

You don't know where Jake is. You don't even know when you lost track of him. Everything is a bit too much, just edging on the side of too disorienting for your overclocked mind to handle. You're hovering on the outskirts of a room full of faceless people, and it feels like everything is spinning. Fresh air sounds nice, but fuck if you can remember where the exit is. 

Out of the corner of your eye you spot Jane, all but barreling toward you through the limp, swaying wall of bodies. She’s dressed impeccably, of course, in the finest devil costume party stores have to offer. Her tits are pushed up to the point of spilling over the cut of her dress, and her hair is frozen in hair-sprayed curls of such strength they could cut metal. The red skirt around her hips flounces out pleasantly, and she has a cute little sequined trident in her hand that you know for a fact she was excited to carry. Gorgeous as usual, her fashion sense doesn’t do much to dampen the ominously intent spring in her step.

“Dirk!” she says, raising her melodic voice to be heard over the music. You dip your head once in an acknowledgement that feels cool, but probably isn’t. She’s not as touchy as Roxy is, usually, but she grabs for your pleathered forearm anyway. Her red lips curl into a gleeful smile, and it makes you nervous. “You’ll never guess what I just heard.” She leans forward onto her tiptoes, reaching to get her mouth closer to your ear. It’s at this point you figure that she might be drunk. You make a mental note to keep half an eye on her.

“What did you hear, Jane?” Your voice is soft, but she’s close enough now to hear you clearly.

“Jake is looking for you,” she says with a grin, pushing at you playfully. Again, it’s very Roxy adjacent, and you wonder if perhaps the two of them are spending time together without you. You realize that, of course they are, and how could you expect them not to? Then, you shame yourself for even entertaining any of that train of thought at all, and _ shut that shit down  _ before it spirals. 

“What an auspicious coincidence, I myself am looking for him.” You look down at her and get the weirdest urge to kiss the top of her head. Of course, you do not, but the urge is present all the same. You’re glad to have friends like Jane in your life, despite the brief dramatic undercurrent of the past few weeks — what with how hot the both of you think Jake is. She’s a woman who respects boundaries, at least, though you don’t know how you would even go about fighting for him were she not. Likely, she’d destroy you, and you’d deserve it.

“Don’t muck this up now,” she says with a pout, leaning back onto her flat feet and putting her fists onto her hips. “Seriously.” Then, she uses her tiny plastic trident to point you in a direction expectantly.

You stumble in the way she indicated, shouldering past couples in various stages of getting busy. Jesus, it just reminds you of how desperately you need to get laid. As a pair of adults (college students, no less) it is remarkable that you’re on week three of your relationship without having consummated it. And by remarkable, you mean that it fucking sucks and you desperately want your unbelievably hot boyfriend to fuck you. The two of you actually hadn’t even talked about it yet. You think that you’re both playing a weird game of ironic boner chess, but you honestly can’t be sure. That’s mostly just what you hope is happening. 

You mutter a small “Fuck,” to yourself as you just barely manage to step over a horde of your trashed classmates. One of your hands shoots out toward the nearest wall to help guide yourself and keep your blind ass on track. As you near a small alcove, which in a well-lit, clean version of this house may be something like a reading nook, you spot Jake. He’s wearing a matching spy outfit to yours, and Hell’s bells, his is sinfully tight. Where yours clings to your skin awkwardly, bringing perhaps too much attention to your small, lean ass and protruding ribcage, Jake’s hugs each swell of his muscles like a Grecian sculpture. On your outfit the sticky pleather reaches your throat, choking at your windpipe and cutting your neck in half. On his, the material is open in a V, revealing his chest and neck in all its glory, similar to the cut of women's costumes. The dip of the fabric revealing his pecs is cruel in a way you never imagined a Halloween costume could be. He’s sitting with his legs crossed, and the amount of leg showing should be illegal. The amount of skin showing on his body far outweighs the amount hidden, and he honestly looks like something straight out of a porno mag. You feel your jaw drop to the floor. In the haze his body is like an oasis, and when he turns his blinding smile on you it’s heart stopping. God. Why won’t he fuck you?

“Hello there!” he says, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward with his hands on his knees. He looks at you like he’s a starving man and you’re a buffet. Your heart is in your throat. You wonder if he’s drunk.

“Yo,” you respond, immediately cursing yourself. Yo? What are you, a 90’s rapper? He pats his leg, and for a moment you think that maybe he wants you to sit in his lap. But you think better of it, and move your gaze to stare at the crowd. In your periphery you see him frown.

“Enjoying the festivities?” he asks, after a moment. He moves to stand beside you, but you still pointedly look away. 

“Oh yeah, being a designated driver is definitely the ideal way to spend Halloween,” you say. “I especially love the part where I let you convince me to wear this stupid costume. I feel like a fuckin’ sausage and I’m suffocating.” 

He snakes a hand around your hip, and says “Well, then you’re the prettiest sausage at the ball, or some such flirty colloquialism. I myself am having a splendid time.” 

“That’s because you’re drunk.”

He mocks offense at this, raising one calloused hand to his heart. You try not to stare at his chest and collarbones — holy fuck he’s got you whipped. Unfortunately, you’ve run a number of calculations pertaining to the likelihood of you getting any on this particular night, and things didn’t look good. But a boy can dream.

“I haven’t had a lick of alcohol, I’ll have you know. I wanted to spend my first Halloween stateside fit as a fiddle. You wound me, Dirk.” There’s a moment where he just looks at you and shakes his head. “Always so quick to assume, you.” He reaches up to pinch your nose and you duck to the side instinctively. The frown from before returns. 

You’re not convinced he’s sober. Knowing Jake, he might not even know he’s consumed alcohol. He has a tendency to only notice what he wants to.

“Must you always sulk?” he says, lifting a hand to his brow like a nineteenth century woman having a fainting spell. “It’s exhausting.”   
  


“You’ll live.”

“I doubt it,” he leans against you, trying to catch your gaze. You allow him a brief moment of attention and he brightens. “Would you like to get out of here?”

You almost laugh. If only he knew what that sounded like. The fucking fool has no idea. Instead of explaining the complexities of American dating customs you just ask, “And go where?”

“I dunno,” he waves his hand in the air. “I'll sweep you off your feet, and we can go gallivant amongst the jack o'lanterns.”

“Gallivant?” You raise an eyebrow. 

“Gallivant,” he says poignantly.

“Can't gallivant, English.” You scoot a few steps away from his grip, already mourning the hot touch of his fingertips. “Designated driver — remember?”

“Well you should tell Ms. Lalonde 'sorry, but no’.” Jake turns what can only be described as puppy dog eyes on you, and reaches for your hips once again. “Diiiiirk,” he whines, childishly.

His begging look awakens something inside of you, and your gut burns with the primal need to strip this man bare and  _ ravage _ him. You swallow roughly, feeling the muscles of your neck work as you do it. You can't tell if Jake notices, but it feels obvious, like your thoughts are fucking audible. The pair of you had been on a handful of dates thus far, most of which could be described as gallivanting, and yes, it was fun. But you had been busy, and so had he. Some of your midterms had already been assigned, most were coming up, and your mechanical engineering major didn’t come easy. So the dates had been brief and easy and set to a certain time constraint. Still, between you both, the chemistry was palpable and the sexual tension out of this fucking world. 

More importantly than any of that, though: Roxy is relying on you. And you would die for Roxy a hundred times over. If that death is a death of a barren, unfucked existence, so be it.

So you place a hand on top of his, and tell him no. His brows scrunch in annoyance, like he can't seem to understand the concept.

“So we can’t leave the party, then?” he asks, clarifying the obvious. You nod, and he looks contemplative, just briefly, before leveling ravenous eyes upon you. “But it doesn’t matter what we do as long as we are here?”

You shrug. “Yeah, I suppose that doesn’t matter, sure.” He grins at your response, and you get an odd feeling in your chest, like you’ve just been put into check, and you wonder what your next move should be. Jake pulls away from you, crossing his toned arms behind his head and stretching his back and shoulders.

“Well, dear Dirk, I’m quite chilly,” he says, twisting to and fro. You hear the soft sound of his spine popping, and he winks at you. “Shall we make a brief excursion over in the direction of the coat closet?”

“Coat closet?” You follow his lead, staying right at his heels as he strolls over toward a small closet at the house’s entrance. He walks with what looks like a practiced swagger, seeming, for all the world, like a man with his life together. Which you know to be entirely untrue. But the other members of his frat scattered about the party appear none the wiser, waving to him as he passes like he’s the very sort of Greek God that you oft compare him to. “What kind of house party has a coat closet you can just put your shit into? Did you even wear a coat?” you mutter, as he swings open the small entryway closet. 

He looks at you plainly for a second and you look back at him.

And then you realize that you’re a fucking idiot. And he’s got you in ironic boner checkmate. In a game only you were playing.

You make a small, dumb sounding ‘ah’ aloud, as your brain catches up to this new development. The sleepless nights spent tossing and turning in your bed were all for naught, you now know, as the only one playing any sort of game was you. Jake English looks nothing if not full of a nervous sort of pride, as though you had both been openly trying for this very obvious goal of messy closet sex. He has no idea that you thought the both of you were playing a fornication mind game. It's written across his face, clear as day.

Except — the longer you hesitate, the more his shred of confidence is covered by the storm clouds of self doubt. Now is perhaps not the time for your pensive stoicism. You do your best to look excited, or rather, you lift your eyebrows in a way that could be read as excited, and Jake perks back up.

A group of chatty coeds are getting louder as they approach and you make the split second decision that,  _ fuck yes this is happening, _ and push Jake bodily into the closet. You grasp the doorknob as you do, snapping the door shut behind yourself with a resounding thunk as you press your body against his. Now that you're inside of the closet, it feels a lot smaller than it had looked. You and Jake are practically chest to chest, one shoulder pressed against the wood of the door and the other fighting for space with several hanging wool jackets of various muted earth tones. It's warm inside as well, you can already feel a cool sweat on Jake’s bicep where your hand rests, sticky and clammy against your fingers. 

He looks fucking ecstatic. The only light is what little makes it through the door frame, but Jake’s smile seems to illuminate the closet all on its own. There's a small, childish snicker as he moves his head to rest on your shoulder. His breath against the shell of your ear as he laughs, warm and husky, is arousing in a way it shouldn't be, but Jesus you've been waiting for this since you laid eyes on him. You lean your head half a centimeter closer to him, despite some embarrassed protesting in your brain, and Jake takes note of the movement. He turns his own head to press his mouth against your neck, just below your earlobe. The touch of his lips is hot as he slowly kisses at the skin there. It’s tender in a way you're not used to (but you think that you like). Your fingers dig into the hair at the back of his neck and scratch at his upper back impatiently as he starts to lavish every exposed bit of your neck with slow, kind kisses. 

He bites and sucks, and you stutter out a breath you didn't know you had been holding.

You wiggle in your costume, your semi becoming uncomfortable in the stifling pleather. With a look of intense concentration, Jake tugs at the material. It doesn't budge.

“Hm. Now how might a bloke go about extracting you from this contraption?” he asks you sheepishly. His mouth warps into a silly, crooked grin, and you think that his dumbassery is absurdly hot.

“Zipper on the back,” is your response, throat too dry to say anything scathing. You turn around to allow him access and he scrambles for the tiny, nearly invisible piece of metal. “You bought the thing, damn. Took me nearly an hour to zip it myself.”

“Incredible! Mine just slipped on like a tank and shorts. Fancy that.” Finally, his rough fingers close around the zipper, and he begins to pull it down. He does it slowly, agonizingly slowly, stopping as soon as the back of your neck and your shoulders are visible to once again worship your skin with kisses and licks. Your body trembles out of your control while he nibbles at your shoulder blades and leaves hickies around your collar bones. You arch your back and grind your ass directly into his dick.

This clearly works as encouragement, as you feel the hot closet air touching more and more of your bare skin as he unzips the costume down further. This pace is more of the frantic, awkward fumbling you were expecting. Once you're free enough, he stops and allows you to pull your arms out of the sleeves, and then he yanks the whole costume down to your thighs, leaving your pelvis and torso bare.

You spend a moment worrying about the fact that the closet door doesn't have a lock — only to be interrupted by the suddenness of Jake’s fist wrapping around your cock and his mouth at your ear, whispering, “You're just divine, Dirk, absolutely beautiful, the finest creature I’ve ever seen, golly if you could see yourself, you have no idea how dearly I want to ravish you,” and so on and so forth as he strokes up and down your length. The attention is altogether too much, too unlike your previous sexual encounters, and the feeling of the cheap material separating the press of his dick from your ass and the stimulation of his jerking movements around your shaft is driving you to a point you didn't know you could reach. You throw your head back onto his shoulder and inhale sharply, doing everything in your power not to whine like some low rate porn star. One of your hands stabilizes you against the wall, and the other wraps around his neck in a desperate move for more contact, more attention, more anything; this feeling is addicting. 

Jake cups your ass and squeezes, and in response you grind harder against him. “Dirk, darling,” he says gently, “I came prepared with all the trimmings of course — protection and all that — so would you mind terribly if I…?” he trails off, but punctuates the question with a sweep of his thumb over the head of your dick and an encroaching brush of his fingers against your ass.

You wonder if he knows you also came prepared. Despite having spent the last three weeks telling yourself before every meeting with Jake English ‘not today, it won't happen today, I calculated the probability’, you have come prepared to every encounter. Of course you have. 

“Yes, God, fuck,  _ please.” _

“Great, wonderful! Consent is important,” he says, and you chuckle roughly. He wastes not even a second, none of that slow, languid worship from before. Clearly he's becoming impatient, and the cold drip of the lubricant (complete with the sound of him throwing the tiny, one-use packet on the floor) is followed so quickly by the breach of his finger you barely have time to process the sensations. It stings a bit, you're out of fucking practice, but as he works you open you remind yourself that this is Jake English finger fucking you. Jake English the dumb fraternity hottie with an ass like the ripest summer peach. And if the thought of that doesn't do it for you you don't know what will.

One finger becomes two, pain becomes pleasure, and soon the both of you are tired of waiting. Just as you're about to snap at him to get on with it, he pulls his fingers out and you can hear the distinct rustling of the cheap Halloween costume as he finagles his way out of it.

And then you hear the unmistakable rip of a condom package, followed by another of those lubricant ones. You pray to God that his dick is everything you've dreamed, everything his sinfully tight shorts have led you to believe. One of his hands comes to push on your shoulder, easing you forward into the wall where you rest with your chest and ear pressed against it. The thrum of the music is loud, and you can actually feel the bass through the thin drywall. Once he has you so positioned, Jake’s hands return, one stabilizing your hip and the other spreading you with an errant thumb. 

He lines himself up and pushes forward and  _ Jesus Christ you can already tell that he's fucking huge _ .

You bring an arm up to bite at the skin near your wrist. Jake continues pressing in, unrelenting until he has bottomed out. It makes you feel impossibly full, stuffed to the brim. His pulse inside of you is disgustingly intimate and strangely matches the pulse of the music against your skin. He pulls out tortuously slow and then thrusts back into you, making every muscle in your body flex. You can just barely hear his voice, quietly muttering compliments and praises, saying things like “Criminy Dirk, you are just fantastic,” and “Oh darling, you are so wonderful,” and it makes your heart jump and skip.

He sets a pace, and it's a little sloppy, but hitting in you just the right way, just the right place, to make you have to continue to stifle your voice against your hand.

But he notices that, you can tell because he stops fucking into you for just a second, like he can't fuck and think at the same time. Then he resumes, but not without snaking an arm up your body. His hand reaches up onto your neck, and he applies a light pressure, just enough to cause you to pull your head back away from your hand. When he has you right where he wants you, awkwardly contorted between himself and the wall and the mass of scratchy fabric beside you, that's when he starts jacking you off in time with his thrusts. And, having no barrier, you moan clear and loud, a needy ‘ah ah ah’ sound followed up by a slew of cuss words. It’s embarrassing, and you bring one of your hands up (leaving the other one as the only thing stabilizing your body as you rock with his thrusts) to quiet yourself, but he pulls it away. His lips press against your ear, and he whispers throatily, “Let me hear you.”

“Everyone else is going to fucking hear me too,” you pant in response. He laughs.

“Let them.” 

He's fucking you, his dick feels just right inside of you, and the messy way his fist pumps along your length, squeezing at the base every so often, is making you melt. Each time you manage to make out what he's saying, the small compliments, the reverent whispers of your name, it makes you full body tremble. Before you know it, you can barely hold yourself upright. Your thighs are shaking and threatening to give out and you hear your own voice saying, “Jake,  _ fuck,  _ Jake,  _ please fuck shit Jake _ …!”

“Just another second, love,” Jake says through a huffed breath, “You're doing amazingly, you're so amazing, I’m almost there.”

But you can't wait another second. You can't wait another second because the word ‘ _ love _ ’ sets you off like nothing before, like fireworks in your brain and around your body, like sparks against your skin. Your whole mind goes white, and you go limp against Jake who scrambles to hold you up as you moan and keen and cuss and jizz messily into his hand. You come so fucking hard the edges of your vision goes dark like you’re on the edge of fainting. He speeds up against the ragdoll that is your body, and you lean heavily against the wall to stay upright as he thrusts inside of you a final time, balls deep, and groans in your ear. You feel his dick twitch as he finishes, and when he pulls out it's all but two seconds before you're in a heap on the floor.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, awed. “ _ Holy shit _ .”

“Holy shit indeed.” He kneels down to your level, and you look at him from your knees. Affectionately, he sweeps the now messy hair from your eyes. “Alright there?” he asks cheerfully, and you curse his weird youthful stamina.

“I think you fucked the life out of me.”

“So dramatic,” he says, standing back up to clean and dress himself. After another full minute you scrounge up enough energy to do the same, but just barely. You try to pull your costume back on, but it is forty times more difficult now with your sweat slicked skin. Jake and you struggle together for a good while before the both of you are finally set and clothed again. Your hair is a lost cause and Jake’s isn't looking so great either. There is definitely an air of ‘oh yeah we just fucked’ around the both of you. You're not sure you mind it.

“Are you ready to go back to playing designated driver?” Jake asks, pulling you to his side.

“I don't know. Are you ready to go back to pretending you think the sorority girls are interesting?” 

“Ooh, low blow there,” he giggles — straight up giggles — and God he is so hot you could fuck him again. 

“Let's just do it,” you say, and he nods, so you push open the closet door and step out.

And immediately all eyes are on you. It is clear that you and Jake hadn't been nearly subtle enough. It is clear because nearly everyone simultaneously turned to look and see who was moaning like a whore from the closet, and then in unison everyone turned back to pretend to be polite. But they all saw, and they all heard, and you know they all saw, and you know they all heard.

Well. Fuck.

It's a good thing you don't care about your reputation. Jake, on the other hand, deeply values his, but he seems oblivious. He strolls out of the closet and directly into a group of his cohorts, striking up an easy conversation.

Across the room you can see Jane staring you down, so you wave awkwardly. She gives a soft smile and with a raised eyebrow, holds her hands four to five inches apart. In response you hold your own closer to something like seven or more. She nods, and Roxy, who you now see behind her, whoops, and gives you two thumbs up.

**Author's Note:**

> id like to thank my partner for not breaking up with me even though i write porn fanfic now. and also for reading this. yea i let my fucking partner read it. id also like to thank jake english for being such an idiot. happy bday jake english.


End file.
